My Path to Awesome

A Story of Autism, Anxiety, and Authorship

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“Hi. I’m Rae.”

I practiced that line. Over and over again. In the mirror, in my head, to the imaginary small group I knew I would encounter. In fact, the closer I got to the day I needed to leave for the writer’s conference I had signed up to attend in New Orleans, the more anxious I got.

I’m not gonna go.

You gotta go.

No, I’m not going.

But you spent all this money.

I should go.

And suddenly the day had arrived. And then I was on the plane. And then I was in the hotel. And I was in my room. And then there was the welcome email: So excited you’re here! Looking forward to tomorrow!

Then “tomorrow” actually came. I rehearsed my speech again: “Hi. I’m Rae.” Yeah. Good pacing, no anxious waver in the voice. Deep breaths. One more time. “Hi. I’m Rae.” Okay, that felt natural. You can do this. It’s just a room full of people. And worst case scenario you can keep your head down and even put your headphones on if you want. Sit in the back, take your notes, and get what you came here for: strategies for rebuilding your writing career. You’ve got this.

Hand on the hotel room door handle. Oh shit. Oh shit…

The toilet seat flies up, last night’s dinner spews out in a rush of garbled, partially digested particles of…I don’t even remember what I ate. That’s it. I’m not going. I can’t fucking do this. I’ll just be a lonely tourist, sitting in her super nice hotel room in a city she’s never been, and I’ll just sign up for walking tours and eat every meal room service. Screw the conference; we’ll try again next year.

I don’t remember what I said to myself to get off my knees in front of the Porcelain God, brush my teeth, and grab that handle again. But somehow I was suddenly in the Riverwalk hallway, headed up the escalators to the conference halls on the other side. Then I remembered for this part there was assigned seating. The deep inner groan that pulled from my very soul. Now I gotta wander around the room looking for my name? Shit!

Is this is it? Yes, there’s the banner for the conference. Deep breaths. Okay, you can do this. It’s just a room. It’s just people. It’s gonna be great. Gentle rumbles of chatter echo from the open conference room door. Another two tentative steps. Hi. I’m Rae. Walk through.

“Hey girl!”

Cute, short, blonde. Glasses. Smile. She has my hand. “You’re Rae, right? I know exactly where you are.” Name tag says Angela. Inwardly, I sigh. Thank you, Angela. She walks me over to a table brightly decorated and littered with all kinds of conference swag. At least four other women are already there.

“You’re Rae? Hi!” The introductions start, the smiles persist, the conversation even includes me. And then, as I’m pawing through the swag, I see it. The squat little panda pencil sharpener. Everyone else’s pencil sharpener is some other translucent pink thing, but me, I got the panda. My spirit animal. I have always resonated with bears: I collect them (Winnie the Pooh in particular), but pandas are how I express myself, channel my energy. This one is not like the others–but in a good way. The spirit world had aligned and given me a sign.

I belong here.

Hope floats to the surface from the center of my soul and lingers like a balloon in my chest, and I dared to dream that I could live up to my son’s assignment for this trip:

Mom, you have to talk to people.

Why? (Rather matter-of-fact really. I legit had no clue why.)

Because that’s how you make friends, Mom.

Oh…well, yeah. I knew that.

But today, it seemed like maybe I actually might. And the prospect of that was even scarier than I dared to dream. As the day wore on and conversations ensued, invites to lunch and walks and brainstorming sessions followed. And I had dinner plans and hangout sessions. I came back to my room the first night reeling. I told my boyfriend on the phone: “This was so great! I met people. And they were funny! And they liked me!” He chuckled. “Of course they did, babe.”

The next day, that hope from the day before rested right at my throat, and this time, when I said, “Hi. I’m Rae,” it wasn’t rehearsed. I meant it. Because on the other side of that introduction, I was eager to find out who they were. And then, during a workshop conversation, someone–I don’t remember who started it–admitted they struggled with ADHD, and the table erupted in “me too!” I said, “Well, I have ASD, but neurodivergents unite!” And there was one guy with flowing locks and a scruffy chin who said in measured volume, “Me too.” And then a lady: blonde with long facial features and the pleasantest smile said her too. After that, every time any of us caught sight of each other hiding at a back table trying to stim to re-regulate from all the noise and frequent transitions, we gravitated toward one another and just sat in silence. Adjacent. But one.

I met my spirit twin on day one. A sweet, dark-haired beauty with glasses and purple and green highlights, a bubbly personality, and shared my chronic illness–and therefore consistently checked in with me on my energy levels: “Where are we on spoons, love? You need a break? There’s no shame in going to your room and napping.” She honored her body in the same way, taking several moments to bow out of lunch or dinner or evening hangouts to go up to her room and rest while watching HGTV. We shared so much in common: the Animal to my Kermit. Eventually, I likened her to Squishy from Monsters University: a cute, pink squeezable character that scared the living crap out of me by suddenly appearing during or after a workshop with “Hey, Rae!” She was a welcomed sight every time. “Hey, Matty.”

On the last day, I did something I would never have done–I asked to speak during the open forum. I told this very story about throwing up before leaving my room, the beautiful blonde named Angela that took my hand and, with that gesture, unlocked my social block. Yes, I learned many things; every workshop I attended and the information I got from fellow writers who went to other workshops helped to develop strategies for my rebranding and the relaunch of my career, gave me keys for becoming the author I have always wanted to be. But the real objective had been achieved. I had checked off my son’s mandate.

I made friends.

Not that superfluous “Here’s my card, shoot me an email, find me on socials!” bullcrap and then never speak to or see those individuals again. No. I had direct phone numbers and even addresses in my phone, invites to coordinate writing retreats in future months, and 3am cab buddies on the ass crack of dawn trek to the airport after checkout. Friends who texted me when they landed and made plans to video chat in the coming week, who stored the date of my upcoming surgery in their calendars.

This conference had done something I didn’t quite know how to do with a group: engage. For the first time, I felt safe to interact and be myself in front of people, to raise my hand and contribute to a conversation, or jump in and ask questions. To exchange my knowledge and expertise with others while they constructively provided feedback on mine. I had found my people, my tribe. These people, the full rainbow array of them, got me. Truly got me. And even if I never see any of them again–which of course Matty will never allow to happen: “You’re stuck with me forever!”–I took something meaningful from that experience. I learned friendship, true tribal unity, takes vulnerability. It requires openness. It demands authenticity.

So, now comes the required call to action, right? Let’s try this one more time:

Hi, I’m Rae. I am a badass autistic fantasy author who loves to share stories about my challenges with autism, my writing process, book recommendations, and sometimes glimpses into my private struggles with lupus. I’m passionate about building a community of readers who love what I love: stories, both personal and fiction.

I’d love to recreate the vibe I found with my friends with my readers. And I promise to get real with you–and stay that way. To let you get to know me while I get to know you. Because on every page of every book of mine you’ll ever read, you’ll see some aspect of me reflected in those stories.

So let’s get real. Let’s get authentic. And let’s do it here.

Together.